Acacia Trifling

Ron Koppelberger

Acacia Trifling

The seclusion of breaches and kindred caste, a placid mystery of charm and a countenance of natural strength possessed. The refined gloss of passage and the disposition of sister Acacia. She found order in the evening sky charged and pure, wise and in peculiar trifles of innocence. She untangled the alabaster rosary and prayed. The waves of rolling grain heeded the tender courtship with god as her angel responded in the remedy of welcome and yearning chance.
She arranged the rosary around her neck in passage from the darkness of ancient malady, death to the nascent sum of god’s fruition. The footfalls stitched the seam in heartfelt challenge and fulfillment. She measured the spirit of quest and exclaimed, “Attend, align, push the light courtesies of expectation and birth, the city without sin, the city of sinless revelation.” The waves of wheat and amber grain rolled on endlessly guarding the path and way.

Chains to the Past

Ron Koppelberger

About 2300 Words.

Chains to the Past (the spirit of morning)

(The Angel)

The angel was a brilliant beacon of love and light shining down on the man and woman from above, ethereal and beautiful before god and heaven. The veil had become a gauzy rent in a place near the couple and so abbadon had taken advantage. He had put on an ostentatious show, barraging them with terror after terror. Finally it had become too much for them and the angel interceded. He grasped the demon and chained him to the darkest depth of hell, leaving the other demons in hell to wonder and quake with fear, supplicating as the angel passed near.

(Changes)

The bird swooped down at him suddenly, the shadow of it feathered flight against his face. He had been sitting quietly on his front porch for hours, waiting. The bird served as a sign that his waiting was over. He wouldn’t find himself slipping into unconsciousness, disappearing from the planet; his path was clear now. The portent was revealed. He mouthed the lord’s prayer in thanks.
The bird reminded him of the Bee and the Bee reminded him of the Palm Meadow and the Palm Meadow the Locust and the Locust the Wolf. The visions became dimmer and the veil became almost all occlusive; the voices from the depths of sanguine darkness became muted, subdued by the advent of an unknown angel.
Standing, he turned to the front of the house. Once again he prayed, touching the door gently, in singsong rhythms of contrition he asked for protection from above, for his house, his wife and the sanctity of their existence. Sighing he opened the door and went inside.
The next day came much as the previous one had with exception, the sun rose filling the landscape with light as it always had, forever in candent glow, an eternity of light, glowing, warm, guiding and another sign that life would continue to improve for him and the love of his life. The startling fact was that he sensed the difference in atmosphere, the voices were gone and the day seemed brighter. Once gain he prayed.
He had been having nightmares late in the morning hours, silent, flashes of another planet, another life. Sometimes they made sense, at others they were just disjointed images. “ Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take.” he whispered to himself just before drifting off.
There were occasional dreams instead of nightmares, portents of a better life. Love, laughter and happiness filling the spaces where the monsters lay. He wished for those moments, those dreams every time his eyes closed and sleep rushed in. Perhaps the nightmares would end, he crossed himself he looked heavenward with the expectation of rebirth, perhaps and just maybe the nightmares were in the past.
He thought about the bird and the other signs again , it had to be over he thought. The demons were powerless now, defeated and bidden toward other moments in time, left to their own and subject to their own. He found himself imbued with the strength to continue on, toward a greater promise and a dawning hope.
The wind blew gently across the yard, branches clicking and clacking in the tall pine bough, the smell of lilac permeated the air and the suns rays warmed his face, and he breathed, breathed for the first time in a long while. He was free and his life would continue on revolutions constant arc. In times of pause he thought with a bit of the old wariness.

****************

He would need to go to the store sometime later in the day, thankfully his car hadn’t given up the ghost yet. His wife was cleaning, washing dishes and busy with the frills of housework; mother in want he thought. Their communication was good and they loved each other above all else. He smiled and called out, “Finished yet hon?” She wouldn’t leave the house to go shopping until everything was in order.

*************

He found himself sitting on the front porch again, shadows filling the yard in slow creeping acquiescence. The sundial in the front garden read Seven P.M., looking into the sky , squinting at what remained of the dying sunlight he listened. The crickets were singing and a gentle breeze ruffled his hair, blowing it in front of his eyes, momentarily blocking the sky and the sun and the pale glow of an early moon.
Inside the house he heard a muffled stream of yelling and laughter. Arailia was engrossed with “ Platoon “. The air was warm and pleasant, he smiled and moved the hair away from his eyes.
Rex loved sitting outside as everything became a gently hushed dream for him. An easy silence except for the birds and the wind. The branches in the tall palms stirred and the calming whoosh was in contrast to the visions he had been having. For shivered for an instant, hoping they were truly gone. The morphic visions were on vacation, and for now the veil was heavy, and the portent declared his freedom. He prayed silently thankful for the reprieve.
The demons had nearly become a reality, an incarnate consistency and that’s what frightened Rex. What if they returned to claim their souls. What if they came for his sweet Arailia, his love and the very breath of his being. His wife was his sanity and the transcendent nature of their relationship was in direct proportion to what they had been through with the visions, the screams of hallucinatory haunt and the dire substance of a demon in bloom.
The sky continued to darken, the sun low on the horizon glowed like a bright orange flame; he could hear someone playing music in the distance, a guitar flowing in gentle waves of caressing soliloquy to an unknown god. The tune was smooth and it reminded him of honey, the taste of honey, the Bee small buzzing and curious. The Bee had been another sign, flittering near his stomach and the seat of his soul, indeed the Bee had been a portent of good things to come.
He stood, gazing into the sky again, just the faintest twinkling of stars in the distant twilight sky. He closed his eyes and the tiny after burn of a hundred points in star shine lit the inside of his eyelids with a blossoming image. Once again he prayed and when he opened his eyes again the sun had set. Turning away from the trees and the yard and the night sky he grabbed the doorknob and smiled, near the center of the door resting his wings was a dragonfly. It whispered silent vibrations as its promised flight rested near the touch of Rex’s hand . Reaching to the side of the porch, to the Alameda vine growing up the side of the house he found a flower and grabbed it, gently pulling it away from the vine. He held the blossom close to his nose and inhaled, the sweet scent filled his head for a moment, a momentary delirium of opium delights clouded his mind for just the briefest of seconds. He opened the door and dropped the flower to the porch, moving inside he was careful not to disturb the dragonfly on his perch.

*****************

He Slept peacefully for the first time in months. It had been dark quiet and without interruption. Later he awoke to the sound of Araila’s breathing and the scent of her hair. Again he thought of something sweet like honey as he kissed her gently on the lips.
Rex eased the covers back careful not to wake her; he saw something flitter in the corner of his eye. At the bedroom window and reflected in Arailia’s vanity. It was a bumble bee. He sighed, the clock ticked and the bee tapped against the window pane. Rex looked at arailia and smiled, she had slept through this one, this tiny portent called the bumble bee. He looked out the window again and saw the sun, reflected against the trees filtering through the lace curtains and glowing against the mirror, and still, just for a moment he had seen something else. The yard had been strewn with thousand of flower petals multicolored and fluttering in small tempest whirls. He blinked a few times and the image vanished leaving only green grass and sunshine behind.
Dressing himself, Rex went outside to the front porch swing. The air was fresh and invigorating as he inhaled deeply in the morning sunshine. He was prepared for what the day might bring.

**************

He was drinking a coffee, black and steaming, it burned his tongue a little but he liked it that way. He set the cup down, sloshing some over the brim so it puddled on the wooden porch. He picked the lit cigarette up from the porch step where it lay and took a puff. Smoke filled his lungs and as he exhaled he watched a thousand tiny images evaporate in the air, drifting spirals of mist mixing with the currents of fresh air, finally he spotted the image of an angel, in Smokey disarray, fluttering and waving against the haze. Seconds later a chameleon ran across the bottom step, hurrying needing to remain hidden it ran beneath the boards.
A bird screeched breaking his reverie. Arailia motioned him from the kitchen window. Rex waved back, “I’ll be there in a minute honey.” She realized they had overcome the worst of it, the visions the night terrors and the prospect of an endless series of attacks from some unknown quantity, a demon in vaunt, in vestured arrays of hate and diversion. They had prevailed she thought as she watched Rex move through the front door, and they were happy now, for time first time in years. She had had a moment of trepidation, she had seen things for just a moment as they had been and when she saw Rex sitting there on the porch in quiet prayer she had thought the worst, an instant of doubt. What was wrong she thought for a fraction of an instant. The last few days had been a blessing and she believed, she had to believe the worst of it was over. It had been a struggle filling the closeness between them and the space nearby. Rex had seen the sign and now she was sure that it had ended. Araila was overwhelmed with a new hope for their future, and just before calling Rex into the house she had cried a little bit, salty tears of hope and the love of a wife in commune with her husband. Really, all she wanted was Rex to be near her, for him to extinguish the moment of doubt with his presence.
Rex read the worried expression on Arailias face and went to her embracing her; her arms encircled his neck ruffling his hair. He returned her embrace with kisses ,lightly on the lips. They stood there intertwined, sunlight streaming in from the kitchen window, illuminating them in the midst of shadows and silence. They had become sane again, moreover they had overcome. The prevailing sense of dread that had dictated their every waking moment had vanished.
Toenails clicked across the tile floor, Rex looked down into the expectant panting of a fluffy white and absolutely famished poodle. Rex reached down to scratch the little dogs head. She pushed her head into his hand and wagged her tail madly. Leaning upward, Rex let his eyes trace the outline of Arailia silhouetted in the sunlight. She looked ethereal to him for a moment and a poem filled his head.

“Transcendental passing as the

Tides, their love and warmth

The love of an aching abide,

In the afterglow of commingled essence

And in the shape of spirit

Never ending, as they embrace

Never to cease the adornment

Of love, unbridled in perfect passions,

In harmonies face and the whisper of

Love, the sweet whisper of love,

The eternal bond of passion and love.”

Rex touched Arailias cheek and kissed her again, she closed her eyes and smiled in response. They exchanged a soulful look for a moment, the image removed all the barriers that might restrict the feeling of oneness that he had and shared with his wife.

*******************

Later, much later toward the edge of twilight and the advent of an evening moonrise, Rex once again sat on the front porch steps. Lazy tendrils of smoke drifting up from his cigarette. Whippoorwills called out in the evening breeze and the cool airs of a night-tide essence whipped perfumed essences of lilac and fresh cut grass. Rex looked to the East, down the tiny dirt road that fronted the house and as he looked he saw the faintest of shapes approaching growing larger until it stood near the edge of the driveway. A wolf, all scraggly and tall in it’s demeanor. The wolf looked toward the front of the house and Rex then padded it’s way to the front porch. Rex’s heart raced and the prospect of dying flashed across his consciousness. The wolf paused in front of him and rex stood. It licked it’s lips and stood upright planting its paws firmly on either side of Rex’s shoulders. Rex looked into the amber eyed glow of the wolf’s eyes as he held his breath wondering if he would be devoured. The wolfs muzzle was coated in blood and it’s teeth were sharp two inch razors against it’s curled lips. Rex strained under the weight of the wolf. Just as it seemed to be preparing for a fresh meal it’s tongue reached out and licked Rex across the face. Whining the wolf returned to all fours and let out a howl. In that moment Rex saw the freedom that the wolf had and where the dreams of demons and delirium had gone. He prayed again as the wolf Padded away, finally disappearing into the dusky twilight.
The evening wore on that night and Rex realized that the wolf had been sent, by who or whom he wasn’t sure he just knew that he had a guardian angel looking out for him.

A Sprinkling of Rain

Ron Koppelberger

A Sprinkling of Rain

In the sure glow of a noon-tide ray of sunshine she stood face upturned toward the rain and sunshine, warm soothing and tasting sweet, as sweet as anything ever. Warm veined eyelids, glowing crimson and shallowly pooling tears, tears of joy and sweet rain in the candent glow of a days blessing.
They had prayed and now it came in cascades and mists of nourishing wonder. The dry desert sands received her gift and the seedlings drank in the sweet shower. She rubbed her cheek, wet, warm and gritty with salt and grains of desert sand. She rejoiced, exhilarated in trembling emancipating joy. It had rained in the desolate abandon of a forgotten and tragic drama. Primordial salvation visited the tiny tribe and god recognized their prayers with sweet sunshine and rain.
She thought for a moment, the blossom of need necessitates the birth of love. She thanked the skies and heaven in her own angelic harmonies of praise,
“Thank god! Thank god, the rain has come!”

Orchids Always

Ron Koppelberger

Orchids Always

The warning tinctured the difference between respite and wicked breadths of shock. Flay Lodestar offered the prostitute a crisp advance of fifty dollars. She dared his offering with an exotic gossip.
Quiet fires, endless treasures of breath, cleaving exhalations, sympathetic with his caution, his destiny in pausing speculation; he waited for her to begin, the tale, the legend in scarlet, the myriad of bonded maxim. “A secluded orchid in the sea of spirit, “ she began, “ Cheapened by the last love of a dying dream, of a sailing raven borne in feathered confusion, the seeker might discern the words of a common desire and the passion of a revolution in secret. The orchid is allayed by the will of a seconds storm. This is where court the province of bidden sensual allure and the cold hands of fate, in bond and blood. Look for the blossoms depth, the delight of the bred gambol between light and silhouettes in winter fury.” she paused, a gypsy, a prostitute, the forbearance of a bandit, for she took his ease and gave him an orchid, in bloom, in utter abandon and wild rage. He needed love and he sought the comfort of a merciful delusion. She thought nonesuch and he worried her fear. The time to come, the wonts of the coming revolt, by rain and dark cloudy evenings, yet still he was in need and she was the flicker of hope for his course. He would only kiss her, to enjoy her as he deemed close to the flow of what should be real. He knew the time but all he desired was the comfort of the orchid in always.

An Opus For Ants

Ron Koppelberger

An Opus for Ants

“Turn away…….Turn away!” the commander said to the soldier. The soldier ant said,
“But I have this burden to deliver to the queens guard, a burden of nourishment and blood for the secret birth of our children and the nest.” The commander waved his antenna and spun in circles around the soldier and his burden.
“Danger lays in wait by the rivers edge, for the enemy has the deluge and the destruction of our construct!” the soldier ignored the commander and moved on to the place where his burden would be multiplied by the limits of a possible berth. When the soldier ant had found his cache of bidden sustenance he paused and rested for the return home; in a seconds breath the shadow of the enemy approaching filled the sky and the vision of the ants fear. The shadow passed and the ant counted himself lucky in fate.
Later he returned to the nest only to find it awash in an ocean of water and drown comrades. What of the queen he thought. Realizing he was alone his hunger overcame him and he ate the burden intended for the guard and the queen.
“Confessions of mystery, a war fought at odds with the impossible,” he spoke, “But at least I have a belly full of food and my back to build a road unto the next horizon.”

Vagabond Heart

Ron Koppelberger

Vagabond Heart

The bond of nights and shaggy parades of poverty, hungry wanting desires of exclamation, “ Scratch a patch, scratch a patch.” he whispered in energetic need, “ Scratch a patch, scratch a patch.” he hissed in sibilant excitement.
Welcome savory smells and tender roast beef perfumes drifted in waves from the interior of the metal box. The trash can stood five feet high on the sides and he peered on tiptoe into the green battered box. The visible remains of a take-out box lay beneath the shredded remains of several garbage bags. Hanging over the edge of the dumpster he stretched his arm out as far as it would reach, just barely touching the white Styrofoam box. “ Damn scratch, scratch that dog.” he grumbled. His legs rocked out behind him as he balanced against his stomach, reaching forward with both hands. His balancing act paid him the take-out box, his fingers found purchase on the Styrofoam box as he leaned farther forward. “ Arrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhaaaa.” he grunted as the air was forced from his midsection. In awkward momentum he propelled himself backward with his left palm against the lip of the can and his other clutching the white chunk of plastic foam. He landed on his heals and pin wheeled for a moment, finally falling square on his rump. He grimaced in a bruised expression of pain and hungry acceptance.
He layed the box in his lap and opened the lid. Smiling, his belly grumbled, a quarter section of corned beef between wheat, it even had a toothpick in it, a pickle and six fat fries with a dollop of partially dried catsup. Written in cross catch salvation he thought as he devoured the plate of food.
He had found his patch, the dusty shadow of a dream, a wish in starving distinctions of taste. “ What’s this?” he mumbled through bits of corned beef. The bottom of the box had an inscription written in azure ink.
“VAGABOND HEART” it read. He thought for a moment and tore the edges of the Styrofoam leaving out the script. He placed the piece of lunch box in to one of his backpacks and made his way home. Home was a cardboard box on Cannon Street.
He lay there, twilight illuminating the edges of the opening to the cardboard house. The smell of cardboard filled his nostrils with its bouquet and dry warm essences. His eyes flittered and finally he slept. The remnants of a struggle and a day of wandering purposeful foraging behind him. The rubble of nearly a dozen broken boulders lay scattered before him in his dream, in a fog enshrouded circle, filling his subconscious; bones and blood covered the dusty Taboo. He backed away smelling wheat, sweet saffron seed, amber rows of grain and moist fertile earth. Turning he saw the endless wheat fields in saffron glory. Beautiful embracing waves of glowing grain. The sky was a deep flowing ember of twilight fire and ebbing sunshine alliance with the seeping indigo skyline. Looking down he saw the piece of Styrofoam, “ VAGABOND HEART”. picking it up he remembered the trash box and the scraps of food.
He stood still for a moment before he realized he was really there. He knew he should have been waking up in his cardboard house, the sound of car engines maybe even an ambulance in the distant city street, yet here he was in fields of sanctified virgin wheat, in fields of grain perfected, blessed wheat. He felt the cool summer tide of air against his skin, touching his cheeks and brow. Looking to the west to unbidden mysteries of spirit, west to the silhouette of nightfall bloom, he sighed and found the passion to move forward from the spot.
Somewhere in the distance a wolf cried to the moon and the wild loves of adventure and desire called to the east.

New Poetry

Ron Koppelberger

Adrift in Seas of Sleep

Societies in sources of ribboned pinwheel round, a calm

Circle of roaring silence turned by the hands of children in

Pose. An understanding in May flowers and spring rain,

By the ways of adorned history and ancient ritual, the speedy

Sun and blossoms in unfolding umbrae’ of spirit. The

Surreptitious scent of still lilacs and the flutter of silken

Wings against the frayed twilight horizon, a conveyed skyward

Want in the flight of sparrows and the dreamy tendriled wisps’ of

Dried dander and seed, in rushing baptisms of mercy, unto the

Birth of a poor traveler adrift in seas of sleep. By maypole arrays

And truth told by the will of the hereafter and shouts of glee.

Ron Koppelberger

Flames of Reception

The dire dance of survival and

Ghastly grim ghost, a bouquet in violet blood

And syrupy sash, the priceless passion

Of angst and angry scrutiny, the meditative contrition of what allays

The common ground between acts of time

And missions in moted sunglow, bright, luminescent

And in flames of

Reception.

Ron Koppelberger

Angels in twilight

Careful passions in care of love and the sweet sanctity of

Tender beauty, a baptism in crimson shores of

Warm reason and cool airs of spirit,

An elite dance in virtual songs

Of soulful delight, in youthful conquests of

Awakening secret desire, dreaming

The rare want of angels in twilight Rains.

Ron Koppelberger

Cinnamon and Blood

A mournful reign, in odds and ends, in divine truths

Of fate and serene interludes of rest, the oblivious glare

Of eyes in fuzzy focus and smiles in tender sentiment,

An exhalation sought by the cool mists of enveloping shadow

And discreet illusion, a smokey dream of loves’ in flux, well-nigh

In-born , seasoned by cinnamon

                                                                        And blood.

Ron Koppelberger

Passions in scarlet

Hazy aspirations of confusion and gentle suspicions

Of desire,

A unity in perfect ascension and

Commingled essence,

A breath and an exhalation in sighs of

Mysterious allure, a mortal halo of soul defined

By the love of emblazoned dreams

And emanating passions in

Scarlet.